


Sign of the Storm

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: Geralt and Iorveth meet during a storm.





	Sign of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welsper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsper/gifts).



 

“This is wholly unnecessary,” Iorveth says and tries to move out of Geralt’s reach. Geralt stops him with a hand on his shoulder, because that’s just not happening.

“Sit down, stop moving and let me make sure you don’t die from wound fever,” Geralt says and pushes down on Iorveth’s shoulder until he relents and sits down on a piece of rubble. That’s the best thing around, seeing as they’re currently hiding from the storm in a ruin that might be elven. It’s so run down that it’s hard to tell.

“I am sure the downpour washed the wound thoroughly,” Iorveth complains “You needn’t concern yourself with my health, Gwynbleidd.”

“Mhm. Take off your shirt,” Geralt says. Iorveth looks at him for a long few moments with a raised eyebrow.

“Bold,” he says in voice dripping with amusement. He does remove his dripping wet shirt, though. Geralt tries not to read into it. It’s surprisingly difficult. It shouldn’t be – Iorveth was long gone when Geralt left Leto, and he was convinced he’d never see him again. Yet here they are, sheltering from a rainstorm together.

He’d be happy, even, if Iorveth hadn’t been acting as unhappy and stiff as a wet cat ever since he came to Geralt’s aid with the monster fight. It’s ill-fitting on someone Geralt’s seen effortlessly threaten an angry mob into silence by himself.

Geralt kneels down behind Iorveth and looks the wound over. It’s a deep scratch, not too bad, but right on Iorveth’s shoulderblade, where he can’t reach to clean it himself. Iorveth’s skin is cool and smooth, most of his scars faded and narrow, made by blades, unlike Geralt’s, that are from claws and teeth. The vines on Iorveth’s neck go all the way down his side.

“So, what were you doing at that monster nest?” Geralt appreciates the help, he’s very sure he didn’t want to die by a swarm of arachasae. He can’t help but wonder, though, “Have you been following me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iorveth replies sharply. He’s crossed his hands in front of his chest, probably the cold’s harder on him than it is on Geralt.

“It’s a coincidence we were there at the same time?” Geralt asks, making sure his disbelief is clear. Really, he’s impressed – it’s been days since he left Loc Muinne, and he hasn’t noticed anyone following him. Iorveth must be even better than he lets on.

Iorveth doesn’t answer, but he does make a low sound when Geralt cleans the scratch with White Gull.

“That won’t need stitching, and there’s no poison. Just keep it clean.”

“So, exactly like I said – there was no need for this.” Iorveth looks at his wet shirt with distaste, like he’s considering putting it back on.

“Did get you out of your shirt,” Geralt can’t resist saying.

He gets up to unpack his blankets. Roach didn’t run off when they came upon the arachasae, nor when the storm got vicious and lightning struck a tree close enough Geralt could feel the sting in the air, which is damn lucky.

“You’re suggesting I get into bed with you.” Iorveth’s voice is flat enough that Geralt can’t tell if he’s still jesting, or if he really thinks Geralt’s propositioning him. The momentary ease Geralt felt at their earlier teasing evaporates, and he’s once again too aware of the distance between them. The wool blankets are scratchy but mostly dry, so Geralt spreads them on a flat part of the ground. He then looks back at Iorveth and tilts his head in question.

“No bed. Dry blankets is the best I can do,” he says and starts taking off his own wet clothes. “Well, mostly dry.”

Iorveth silently watches Geralt undress for a while longer. “If you insist,” he says like he’s been considering staying and freezing in the howling wind half naked instead. He’s stubborn enough he’d do it, too, given half a reason.

It’s going to be an interesting night, if nothing else.

As Iorveth slips under the blanket, Geralt wonders how they’ll arrange themselves to both stay warm. Then he gives up and just lies down on his side, back to Iorveth, and lets Iorveth decide the rest. Geralt knows he can’t be trusted with being practical in this - he’s been wanting Iorveth back since the moment he realized he was gone. He should stop, he knows; Iorveth may be gone come morning. Still, a few hours ago Geralt was certain he’d never see him again at all.

He doesn’t want to close his eyes and surrender to sleep, even after a day of fighting monsters and nature itself.

Iorveth ends up behind Geralt, his hand around Geralt’s waist; there’s really no other way they can both fit under the blanket. Iorveth seems hesitant to touch Geralt at first. When Geralt doesn’t react to Iorveth’s hand on him, Iorveth makes up for the hesitation by pressing his chest against Geralt’s back firmly.

“I’m surprised to still find you in these parts,” Iorveth says, after they’ve both lain silent for a while, listening to the thunder and rain. It seems they’re going to pretend Iorveth hasn’t been following him, then.

“Where else would I be?” Geralt asks, his voice gruff. He’s not sure it’s a conversation he wants to have.

“Halfway across the world with your sorceress,” Iorveth says, like Geralt should have known this was expected of him. Definitely a conversation Geralt doesn’t want to have.

“She’s not mine,” Geralt isn’t even sure which sorceress they’re talking about, but it’s the truth either way. He’d left Loc Muinne with vague plans to make his way to Kaer Mohren and avoid thinking of everything for when he was there.

“And you sound so _pleased_ about it,” Iorveth says, his voice as derisive as ever.

“You-” Geralt starts, incensed. He turns around in Iorveth’s arms to have this argument face to face, if they must have it. “What I’m _not pleased about_ is you disappearing the moment you got what you wanted. Sorry if my mood is inconveniencing you.”

Iorveth watches Geralt warily for several long moments. Geralt closes his eyes and exhales slowly. That’s about when he realizes his half hard cock is pressed against Iorveth’s thigh. Iorveth must have gotten over the shock of Geralt's outburst by now and noticed as well.

With his eyes still closed, Geralt takes a deep breath. He could make some excuse, but they’d both know it was an excuse.

He’s unprepared for it when Iorveth pushes him over on his back and a moment later kisses him angrily.

Geralt kisses back, bites Iorveth’s lips and pulls him closer. Iorveth straddles him without breaking the kiss. Geralt pulls him down by his hips, and they both groan when their cocks press together.

“Your _mood_ is indeed a trial,” Iorveth drawls, and pointedly presses down harder against Geralt’s cock. Geralt starts to laugh, and Iorveth bites his neck sharply. It sends a shock of pleasure down his spine.

Geralt grips Iorveth’s hips harder and tries to angle them so they can thrust against each other better. Iorveth lets him, and then slips a hand between them and with a firm grip starts stroking both their cocks. It’s fast enough that Geralt feels breathless for a moment, and Iorveth’s lips tracing patterns on his neck don’t help at all.

Geralt reaches for his pack and blindly fumbles until he gets out a vial of what he really hopes is regular oil. He gets it all over his hand, and lets the rest spill on the ground. They both moan when his oil covered hand joins Iorveth’s on their cocks.

Iorveth leans up and kisses Geralt again, softer than before, and pushes Geralt’s hand away. Geralt makes a wordless questioning sound into the kiss.

“Put your hands by your head, witcher,” Iorveth whispers harshly against Geralt’s lips; Geralt whimpers, but does as he's told. A moment later Iorveth grips his cock and angles it so it’s pressing against Iorveth’s ass. He doesn’t seem to have any patience left, because he sinks down without giving either of them time to adjust. Geralt can't keep still for long, he gives up trying and clutches at Iorveth’s hips hard enough to bruise; the tight heat feels good enough to get him feeling close already.

When Geralt’s fully sheathed, Iorveth sits up, astride Geralt, and starts moving, Geralt watches his face, more unguarded than Geralt’s ever seen it. He can’t help but thrust up to meet Iorveth’s every downward move, and soon their rhythm turns hard and fast.

Geralt tries to keep count of the lightning flashes that illuminate Iorveth’s face to last longer. He fails - the sight of Iorveth’s head thrown back in pleasure is enough to send him over the edge as well.

He feels Iorveth collapse on his chest, his hot breaths rapid against Geralt’s neck. When Geralt regains enough feeling to notice the cold again, he drags the blankets over them both. Iorveth doesn’t move from his place, apparently content to sleep just like this, their chests wet with Iorveth’s come and Geralt still inside him. Geralt can’t stop his cock from twitching and giving a valiant attempt to get hard again at the thought.

“Go to _sleep_ , Geralt. I’m tired,” Iorveth says. A couple of moments later he clenches around Geralt and Geralt growls at him. They both laugh and somehow do manage to slip away into dreams, the world around them still in turmoil. 

  


End file.
